


Shreds

by lacygrey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: London, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 06:18:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5698153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacygrey/pseuds/lacygrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, after the fall.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Shreds

Tiny bits of newspaper, torn so small that their stories cannot be discerned, reduced to innocent words and letters as his fingers blacken with their print. The lies hang there nonetheless. It’s pointless destructiveness, but the flurry of activity makes it feel worthwhile. He wants to do it to the flat too, but his better judgement holds him back. Instead, he throws himself out of the front door and into the day. The noise from the traffic is a relief. It doesn't deaden the pain, but its normality calms him. Then, in shock, he wonders why all around him has continued, even why London has carried on. Shouldn’t a machine stop without one of its vital parts?  
  
There’s not a corner of town that doesn't hold some kind of memory of the last two years. They’d left their footprints down every street, even the ones John didn't know he remembered. He didn't realise he could recall so much so well. He couldn't remove the traces of Sherlock from London any more than he could tear the city apart. It’s no comfort that Sherlock is everywhere because he is nowhere. John’s ear listens for a certain tone of voice, a certain style of violin playing. The timeless classical melodies remain, but that unique expression is lost forever and the whole town is haunted with shreds of their life. Now he finds he doesn't want to go back to the flat. Somewhere in Sherlock's room are the clothes he wore the day of their first case. John doesn't dare open that door lest the cacophony of footsteps and the memories overwhelm him. He just wants to move away.

Leaving 221b would be for the best, closing it up like some kind of museum, or tomb of their life. He can't destroy it. Then there’s the people, the yard, Barts... but he needs to find fresh paths to tread, fresh voices to surround himself with, until he can live with these shards without them cutting him. In the graveyard there is nothing, no shared memory, no commentary or answer. Here, at least it is peaceful. One day he will let his memories colour the city with insights, deductions, excitement. Until then, the humdrum of a suburb would be all to the good. He’ll embrace a dull, mundane life, if only so it won’t hurt anymore. He has to stop thinking somehow.  
  
So he flees the city and the people who remind him, seeks friends he couldn't have kept in his old life. London becomes like an old film that he’ll re-watch one day.

One summer’s night, he’s invited to a party on a riverboat cruising up the Thames and sees Westminster for the first time in a year. Cocooned in disco music he still wonders at the images that assail him, two people running along the embankment, Blackfriars bridge and the glow from paired lampstands over a couple on the waterfront…and then he turns and is swallowed by the party once more, leaving the fiction of London behind.

 


End file.
